We Die Daily
by Andacus
Summary: Sometimes, all she can do is falter and pick herself back up, only to falter again.  And the world spins on.  Funny that she realizes this while drunkenly moping about the house.  Damon/Elena, Stefan/Elena
1. Chapter 1

_We Die Daily_

_Chapter 1_

_Around her, the world spins on and she spins with it, a lost girl surrounded by ghosts and monsters, a child raised by fate and magic. She has this feeling deep in her bones that it will find her eventually, that the darkness will swallow her whole. It's like a truth that she can neither look directly at nor look completely away from - it lives in the periphery, thrives in the places just outside of clear thought. And there is some shadowed place in her that wishes it would take her already, wishes destiny would rear her bitter head and demand the price for her life. The Doppleganger's life will always come at a cost, this much is painfully clear. Her life is her message, her every breath a reminder that no monster or demon or friend or lover will ever save her – her life is not her own, it was never her own._

The front door opens and closes and familiar footsteps echo into the house.

Elena looks up from her crumpled place on the couch, a half empty bottle of some kind of scotch in her hand, long abandoned diary in the other, to see Damon saunter in.

He raises an eyebrow, "Wow. Drunk is a good look for you," he teases, making a face that clearly expresses how false that statement is.

"Shut up." She's been crying, so she knows she has mascara smeared around her eyes and there are probably knots in her hair and she's still in her sweats. If she wasn't beyond caring, she might have been embarrassed to look this way.

"Is that my Duncan Taylor?" he asks, snatching the bottle away and peering at how much liquid still sloshes around inside, his eyes doing that angry flickering thing that isn't quite like the flirty flickering thing. He looks again at the label and she can tell he's irritated. "New rule: You may not drink anything older than you are," he snaps.

She scoffs at him and looks away. "S'not yours." It's a lie of course.

He raises an eyebrow at her and looks around her living room, as though there should be something very obvious that he's missing. "Oh yeah? Jeremy keeping 40 year old scotch on hand these days?"

She knows she shouldn't feel bad about the alcohol because, really, he can easily get another bottle regardless of how rare and expensive it might be, but she feels a little bad anyway. She can't help it; it's in her nature.

"Sorry," she mutters, glancing up at him. His face softens and she knows he won't stay mad, but some part of her wishes he would. Some part of her wishes he was still bitter and angry and hungry. This would all be so much easier if she could just push him away, if she could just hate him.

Elena sighs. She hadn't wanted to see him, which was why she had been avoiding his calls all day. Really, she should have known better than to think he wouldn't just invite himself over, which, come to think of it, gives her a sudden idea. "Hey, can I unvite you?"

"No."

"You're uninvited, go'way," she says anyway. He looks at her, his expression blank and she looks away, a little ashamed.

He squares his shoulders and takes a breath. "Come on, Lindsey Lohan," he says, leaning over to haul Elena up to standing, steadying her when she stumbles. He walks her into the kitchen, his arm wrapped around her waist. She ignores the leap in her stomach and the way his fingers have "accidentally" slipped just under the hem of her shirt. He sets her in a chair at the table and starts a pot of coffee.

Elena watches him move around the kitchen, familiar and efficient and it's so annoying. He shouldn't be there. He should be off eating someone or screwing someone or being… himself…somewhere else.

The tabletop is cool when she lets her forehead slump against it and she actually considers falling asleep right there, but he's talking again and she can't, try as she might, manage to ignore him.

"Why today?"

"What," she says, cheek against the table.

"You held it together for nearly a month. So why are you falling apart now?"

She doesn't want to answer because answering is sort of like confessing and that's, well, not exactly something she wants to do to Damon, of all people.

"Weren't you the one sayin' I was gonna crack," she grumbles.

"Not that I don't love always being right…" he says, flippant, flirtatious.

"It's nuffing," she says, wishing he would just drop it.

And surprisingly, he does. Damon shrugs and turns back to the coffee pot, pouring more than enough into one of those stupidly huge souvenir mugs that Jenna always bought. He adds cream and a little sugar and sets it in front of her with a thud.

"Why're you sobering me up?" Elena asks, and comes out more like _whyryousoberup_.

"Because you're wanted at a Founders Council meeting in twenty minutes."

She sits up and her head immediately spins in every direction. Grabbing her forehead to steady herself, she takes a deep breath and scrunches her eyes closed. Damon says nothing but she knows he's watching her, probably wearing that mocking smirk he's so fond of. When the whirling has subsided, she pries one eye open. Yup, smirk. "What do they want?"

"The three musketeers are under the impression that you have some intimate knowledge of the supernatural."

He's talking about Sheriff Forbes, Mrs. Lockwood and Alaric, she knows that, but the biting tone he's using is sort of unnerving. Elena's not completely oblivious, even if she can be a little prone to tunnel vision, and she's noticed the growing tension between Damon and the rest of the council, the people who were his friends. Of course, she can't blame Alaric because, well, Damon really ought to stop killing him.

"No," she says after a minute. "No way. Not talking to 'em about Stefan."

"Elena," Damon says softly… or softly for him, at any rate. "I've already told them all about my _charming_ little brother. They want to know about you. About the Doppleganger."

She's taken aback and when she looks at him now it's with fear and accusation. "You told them?"

"No," he says and she thinks he's being honest, though to be fair, her people reading skills are all but drowned out at the moment. "Ric accidentally let it slip. He was trying to warn them about Klaus."

Maybe it's the alcohol or the original reason she is soaked in said alcohol or maybe it's the fact that Alaric has sold her out, but Elena suddenly can't stop the flood of tears. Embarrassed, she turns away, tucking her face into her hands. Thankfully, Damon doesn't try to comfort her or make her feel better, which would probably just make her feel worse. Instead he sits silently, waiting.

After a few long minutes, he finally speaks. "You don't have to go."

"And I'm not gonna," she says, righteously, drunkenly. "Besides, twenny minutes isn't very long."

Damon smiles and it's sort of sweet, like he admires her for refusing this absurd thing they've asked of her. She smiles back.

"Come on, Elena, spill. What's the deal with today?"

Her lip quivers, she can feel it, but she manages to keep from crying. He's got that imploring-I-really-do-care look on his face and she knows she's going to tell him eventually anyway, so she might as well fess up. Still, she loses some part of her soul when she finally points to the counter where an opened envelope sits.

He scrunches his brow in curiosity, but crosses the room to retrieve the envelope. His eyes go a little wide when he reads the letter and she holds his gaze when he looks back to her, surprised.

"Can't say I saw that coming." Damon says.

"Yeah," she agrees, miserably. "Me neither."

And then he's got that resolved look on his face, that one he gets when he's got some kind of a plan or he's determined to kill someone. It's scarily comforting.

"Come on, sober up. It's a long drive to North Carolina."

"Damon," Elena says, an hour and a lot of coffee later. "I told you I don't want to go."

He scowls at her, aggravated and clearly refusing to hear her. "You're going or I'm going in your place, which would you prefer?"

"Why are you being like this? We both know you don't care about these people."

It's the wrong thing to say, she knows this as soon as the words leave her mouth, but she is still a little blurry and he's being so pushy about it that she's finding it hard not to just scream at him.

"Get in the goddamn car," he says and because she's an idiot, she does.

The truth is, she had been holding it together for these past weeks out of sheer will power and distraction. Every moment was like walking on a tightrope over thin ice while ignoring the blue-eyed, blood drinking elephant in the room, which is probably the worst metaphor ever, but she can't help thinking of it that way. Most days she didn't know what she wanted more; to stay balanced on that tightrope or to just fling herself off of it and go acknowledge the elephant. But hold it together, she had – will power and shame are powerful things – until today.

The letter was nothing she had ever expected to receive, nothing she had ever really thought about, and it has sent her into a tailspin. It isn't the fact that her maternal grandparents had decided to find her – that isn't the issue, really – the problem is that it has suddenly shed a very bright light on how many people she's lost in the last year, many of whom she never had a chance to properly mourn. All four of her parents are dead, Jenna, countless acquaintances, Vicki, Rose, Bonnie's Gran, Tyler's dad and his uncle, even Stefan is dead in a way. And Jeremy – twice. But somehow, by some insane miracle of will power, she has managed to keep living, to keep existing without breaking into a million pieces. But now, faced with even more family, Elena simply can't cope with the idea of loving and losing more people.

"I'm a little jealous right now, you know," she says to him, buckling her seatbelt, hating herself for the truth.

"It's okay, people are always jealous of me," he quips, making her roll her eyes.

"I wish I could just turn it all off and not feel any of it." It's a surprising admission, even to her, but it's true. She's always been an advocate for facing down her emotions, whatever they are (with the single exception of whatever she feels for Damon), but there's a creeping despair that she can no longer ignore. If she lets these people into her life, how is she supposed to cope when she loses them too? Why add more people to the endless death march that seems to be her entire existence?

Damon is quiet from the driver's seat, as they pull away from the curb, but she can tell by his expression that he's forcing himself not to comment.

"Why don't you get some shut eye? It'll help with the hangover."

She scoffs in his general direction, but leans her head against the window anyway, closes her eyes and dreams of monsters.


	2. Chapter 2

Voices seep into her dreams and she lingers in a hazy middle space for a while, part of her in the car, listening to Damon talk to someone on the phone and part of her clinging to the nightmare she'd been having. When had nightmares become worth clinging to, she wonders, idly.

Before she's even pulled herself into the world, Damon's saying, "Good morning, Sunshine," and she's groaning at the way her head and her stomach seem to be disagreeing with everything.

"Where are we?" She peers out the window at the flat, tree-lined stretch of road. The sun is setting, casting an orange glow across the sky. "How long was I asleep?"

"Couple of hours," he answers, shrugging. "We're about halfway there."

She doesn't answer; there isn't much to say, not really. They're driving to Wilmington to meet her grandparents, Isobel's parents, which, were the rest of her life not the plot of a ridiculous teen drama, she might feel weird about. Mostly, she feels hungover and sad.

"Hungry?" Damon asks, glancing her way.

"God, no."

They drive in silence for a long while, the radio playing an endless stream of classic rock, the greenery rushing past, turning slowly darker as the sun sets. It isn't a comfortable silence, it never is, but she's reluctant to break it, afraid of what might be spoken in the darkness of the car; scared of what he might say and of what she cannot say. So she clamps her mouth shut and does her best not to think about why.

"How's that hangover coming along?" He says as they roll up to a rundown gas station.

"Better."

"Elena," he starts, his voice flat and low and panic rises in her chest, because she knows that tone, nothing good ever comes from that tone. But before he can say something both of them will regret, her phone rings and she scrambles, thankful, to answer it.

"What the hell, Elena?" Caroline says before Elena's even gotten all of the syllables of ihello/I out. "Where are you?"

She looks over at Damon and raises an eyebrow, knowing he can hear Caroline, because she's pretty sure the clerk inside the gas station can hear Caroline.

"Wilson, North Carolina," he says.

"Is that Damon? You're in North Carolina with Damon?" She sounds incredulous, annoyed even, and if Elena's being honest, she can't blame her.

"It's sort of a long story," Elena says instead of actually answering. "Can I just explain when I get back?"

"Is this about Stefan, because he was pretty clear –."

"No," Elena cuts her off. "For once, this isn't about Stefan."

There is a sigh and a short silence, but then in a resigned voice she says, "Sure. Just please call if you need anything. And text me that you're okay. Like, every half-hour."

Elena laughs, says, "Thank you." She hangs up the phone and realizes that she slept through five missed calls, all from Caroline.

Damon's already stalking across the lot to the tiny convenience store when she looks up from her phone. He disappears inside, hidden behind crowded racks of junk food and magazines. She contemplates following him inside, but instead just says, "Grab me a water," barely louder than normal, because she knows he'll hear her, he'll always hear her. Inside the store, a hand pops up over a soda display in acknowledgement and she can't help laugh a little.

Beside her, Damon's phone chirps and she sighs in agitation. "Hello, Caroline," Elena says, not unkindly, because she gets it, she knows why Care is being so…Care, but she can't totally hide the irritation in her voice.

"You're answering Damon's phone now?"

"He's in the store. Are you calling to check up or did you need something?"

"Just reassurance that he's going to keep it PG," Caroline answers, bitchily.

"Caroline," Elena snaps, her tone a warning.

"Fine, but you call me the second you need anything, okay?"

"I said I would. I have to go." Elena sighs and clicks the disconnect button even though the conversation isn't really over. The last thing she needs right now is Caroline digging up things that really need to stay buried.

The clunk of the nozzle in the gas tank marks Damon's return. She checks the side mirror, just to be sure, because, well, blood-sucking fiends have a tendency to want her dead, but it's just him. A different sort of blood-sucking fiend, a much more terrifying one.

They get back on the road a few minutes later and something has shifted. The silence is no longer quite so loud. He digs something out of the paper bag he'd come back from the little store with and tosses it on her lap, a smirk playing across his face.

"I thought we could bond," he says and she thinks he might be the only person she knows capable of chewing the scenery in actual life.

Elena looks down at the magazine in her lap, rolls her eyes and scoffs. A mostly naked brunette is posed atop a (and she can hardly believe this) bear skin rug, her hands draped across her breasts and a strategically placed shadow concealing the rest.

"Seriously?" Elena says, holding the magazine up and it tossing in the back.

Damon shrugs and says, with his eyebrows going full force, "Really good articles."

Damon tosses a loosely wrapped, day old egg sandwich at her and the resultant squish and flop of it landing has her stomach bubbling uncomfortably.

"Keep that up and I'll be throwing up all over your pretty, pretty car," she says.

"Better than all over pretty, pretty me," he replies, taking a long slurp of whatever he's filled that enormous cup with, the ice making gross sloshing sounds.

Instead of answering, she simply shoots him an exaggerated eye roll and goes back to peering out the window. It's completely dark now and the moon, half full, does little to light the black highway. She doesn't wonder where Stefan is or what he's doing because she can't let herself; she's gotten frighteningly good at compartmentalizing.

"Do you think they'll be nice?" She says, still gazing at the shadows outside.

"I can make them be nice." When she doesn't respond, he shrugs and says, "Define nice."

"Alaric's never talked about them," she says, ignoring the tiny twinge of anger that runs through her at the mention of Alaric.

Damon says nothing, just looks forward, face blank and it's right then that she knows he's hiding something. She wonders, briefly, when she learned to read him so well, but pushes the thought away. Narrowing her eyes and glaring at him, Elena says, "What? What aren't you tell me?"

"A great many things, Elena. In fact, all day I've been not telling you you smell like a whiskey soaked hobo." He does a decent job of deflecting, really, his tone entirely mocking and dismissive, but she's on to him now. Although, she does sniff her shirt before plowing forward anyway.

"You're hiding something."

"Second verse, same as the first," he says. "Of course I am."

Arms crossed over her chest, Elena digs her feet in the proverbial sand, turns to better face him and scowls. She pulls her phone out of her pocket and starts tapping out a message. "Help," she says, fingertips clicking at the screen. "'Damon's kidnapped me and he's threatening to turn me.' Hmm, send to… Shariff Forbes, Bill Forbes, Mayor Lockwood, Caroline, Bonnie, Stefan…"

"You wouldn't dare. You don't even have Stefan's phone number."

"No? You're certain?"

She feels a little like Katherine, using a threat to get her way, being manipulative to gain information, and it's a little thrilling. She likes it and realizes, surprisingly, that she doesn't hate herself for that.

He eyes her a moment, reading her expression. "Yep, you're all talk. If you did that, it would mean the end of our Driving Miss Daisy thing here and you, despite your reluctance to admit it, are enjoying yourself."

She's taken a bit aback, though she knows she shouldn't be. "Is that right?" She's acting snarky, her bravado a little ill fitting, because he's right. They both know it.

"Fine, but if I die because I didn't have some important piece of information, that's on you," she says, knowing better and saying it anyway.

The car jolts suddenly, as he jerks the wheel to the right, the tires squealing on the asphalt. Elena gasps, her body slamming forward against the seat belt, a scream caught in her throat. The rear end of the Camaro shimmies with the sudden breaking and they skid to a stop on the grassy shoulder of the highway. Before she has a chance to recover, to fire off some angry comment, he's dragging her out of the car, into the cold fall night.

"Okay, Katherine Junior," he says, his hands clutching her shoulders. "You want to play on the varsity team, fine, but be damn sure you can take the blows."

She wants to say something cutting, something mean, because she's hurt and confused and even on her best of days it's hard to keep up with where Damon's head is at. But just now, with his face bent low and even with hers, his entire body rigid, she is so far out of her depth that she can hardly even process the words he's saying, let alone formulate her own.

"Alaric didn't spill the Doppleganger beans, Bill Forbes did. Ric just agreed to take the blame until we could figure out how Bill knows. Or kill him. Preferably kill him."

Wrenching her arm away, Elena stares at him in surprise. "I… how does he – "

"I don't know," Damon says, his tone still angry, still jarring. "But so help me God, if you ever throw your death in my face like that again, I will not hesitate to rip that necklace off your neck and compel away iall/I of your free will!"

And for a shining moment, she thinks he might just do it, but then it's gone, the moment passes and it's just them on the side of the road, glaring at one another with equal measures of anger and dread.

Truth is, she isn't nearly as afraid of that idea as she should be. Maybe it's the lingering sadness or maybe she's just finally hit the ledge, but there is something oddly appealing in the idea of being free of choices. No more choosing to die, no more choosing who to save, no more choosing to be strong, no more choosing between ithem/I – it sounds freeing.

They stare at each other a moment and she can practically feel her heart beating out of her chest, a mixture of adrenaline and fear. And maybe something else she isn't acknowledging. Definitely something else she isn't acknowledging.

"Is that it?" She asks, knowing that if he's taking this protection-by-omission angle, there is probably more to the story.

He stands to his full height, sighs and admits that, no, that isn't it. "Bonnie had a run in with Rebekah."

"What? When?" She's almost frantic, panic bubbling up immediately. She has a sudden vision of Bonnie, all those miles from home, stuck in some dirty hotel room alone, easy prey. "I told you she shouldn't have gone!"

"She's fine," he says, annoyed. "Still insufferable and judgy, but fine."

"Damon." Elena's voice is a warning, not that she really expects him to heed it.

"It doesn't sound like darling Becky knew she was there," he says, some of the malice gone from his tone now. "They passed each other in the hotel and Bonnie spotted her from across the lobby. That's it, she's already gotten the hell out of Dodge."

Elena turns away, stalks the length of the car and back, arms swinging angrily. "This was such a bad idea. We have to go home. Bonnie needs to come home. She shouldn't be so close to them."

"No," he says, voice sharp, allowing for no disagreement. "This is exactly what we need. You need to get away from Mystic Falls for a while and let the crazy boil over without you for a change. Witchy's got her voodoo crap under control. Besides, we need a warning system and she's all we've got."

He's right, of course. With Klaus, Stefan and Rebekah wandering freely around the wide open spaces of wherever the hell they want, she can't afford to pretend she's safe. None of them can. Bonnie's plan for a magical perimeter is a good plan, she has to remind herself, it's a solid plan.

The worry subsides quicker than she thought it would and she files that under things that she'll despair over later, right next to the question of her actual humanity and that lingering feeling of doom she's developed. But right now, in this moment on the side of the road, she's becoming aware of something that, well, it pisses her off.

"And you," she says, pointing a finger at Damon, nearly to the point of yelling, stepping into his space. "I would have expected this 'We're lying to protect you, Elena' crap from Stefan, but from you? Really, Damon? The Edward Cullen routine?"

Clearly, he's caught off guard, because his face does this twitch thing, like he's just learned some unexpected information that he doesn't want you to know was unexpected. He opens his mouth to reply and when he speaks, though his jaw is still tight, his tone is soft. "You're right," he admits. "That was a dick move."

It's all the apology she's going to get, she knows that, because he's not sorry.

"I just… I thought we were past this." She's doing that thing, that girl thing that used to drive Matt crazy, but she can't help it. She knows the conversation is over, knows full well that they've said all there is to say, but she isn't ready to let it go.

He turns and walks back to the car. "Are you coming?"

"We had a deal!" she says, pushing when she should just be climbing back into the car and accepting his pseudo-apology.

"Yes, we did," he says. "And I broke it. This surprises you why?"

She huffs, annoyed that he's not even engaging in the conversation anymore, not really. Stomping a little, because she's not totally in contact with her inner adult in this moment, Elena gets in the car and slams the door, sinking low in the seat.

"Look," Damon says, starting the car and stepping on the gas a little too hard. "I came over to tell you everything, well, with the exception of Bill Forbes' evil masterminding, but there you were, acting out an After School Special, and you looked, of offense, fucking terrible. Then there was that letter and… it was just good timing." He says this all with an unrepentant shrug, like he has no real opinion on the matter at all.

"I think I deserve the truth. I've earned that."

He doesn't argue, in fact, he doesn't say anything for well over a minute and just when she fears they'll devolve right back into that awkward silence, he looks over, wiggles his eyebrows (she wishes he would stop that) and says, "So, you want to read a magazine?"


	3. Chapter 3

Thanks so much to those of you who commented and to those of you who added this to their alerts or favorites - those are comments too. :D Also, formatting is going to drive me crazy. Sorry for the alerts, I had to delete and repost and I think it might still be wonky. Ugh!

"I don't understand why we need a hotel room?" She says, dropping her bag on the floor and raising her eyebrows.

He smirks (of course he smirks) and steps a few steps too close. She can feel his breath and holds hers (it's habit; a defense mechanism, okay?).

"Because it's not a road trip without clichéd hotel room hijinks," he says.

"Damon," she scolds in that tone that she thinks sounds reprimanding, but never really stops him from doing anything.

"Seriously, Elena," he says, stepping back and turning to switch on another lamp. "You smell like the welcome mat at a biker bar. You need a shower before it sinks into my upholstery."

She should scold him, tell him he's being horrible, but she doesn't really have it in her, so she rolls her eyes and goes into the bathroom, her bag slung over her shoulder.

The mirror is covered in fog by the time she drags herself from the hot water, not so hot it scalds, but hot enough to burn away her sorrow. Elena isn't really the type to wallow and her little indiscretion earlier was more than embarrassing enough. She wipes the moisture from the mirror in a wide arc and stares at the girl looking back at her.

It's something like staring at a stranger and she laughs, low and humorless, at how trite that thought is. Without another thought about it, Elena grabs the hair dryer and busies herself with the mundane steps of getting ready for the rest of her night.

Damon is lounging, in that way that he has, on the bed, his arms crossed behind his head. She greets him with half a smile and notices that he's watching the news. Some story about a series of murders in Florida flashes across the screen, the reporter tonelessly rattling off details of the crime. He changes the channel immediately and she pretends not to care.

It would be better if he didn't try to hide these things. She knows Stefan is doing that, knows he's slicing people apart and pouncing from town to town. She can handle it. She doesn't say so, though, because she has other things to worry about and it's an old argument anyway. And if she's honest, it's hard to be angry when she knows he's just trying to protect her and Stefan, even if it is from one another.

She wonders if he took this kind of care of his little brother when they were human, wonders if the eternity of torment he had promised was just as much about his failure to save his brother as it was betrayal and heartbreak.

She has a good idea he would never admit as much.

She flops down next to him, suddenly tired. Looking over, letting her head fall on the pillow, Elena meets his eyes and offers him a bewildered look. It isn't that she's looking for direction, least of all from Damon, it's just that she doesn't know how to proceed from here.

It takes twenty minutes of pacing, fidgeting and general pep-talking before Elena steels her resolve and dials the number.

Something like sadness tugs at her insides and she doesn't really want to examine that. Isobel had been the furthest thing from maternal and Elena had hardly known her, anyway. But still, something like grief flitters there in her core.

Damon is watching, being oddly patient, which serves to make her even more nervous, because…obviously.

Before she even realizes it, she's neck deep in a conversation she doesn't know how to navigate.

Patrick and Susan Flemming are the kind of couple who talk on separate cordless phones, conversations overlapping and colliding into one another, leaving Elena lost.

"Umm," Elena says as the woman on the other end waits for an answer. Damon's two feet away, shaking his head, scrunching his eyebrows, mouthing the word no.

"Well," she says. "I don't want to intrude. Umm, maybe a restaurant or something?"

"Let the girl alone," Patrick says at the same time Susan says, "Oh, nonsense."

Elena's eyes are wide when she looks to Damon, clearly exasperated. Susan is trying, despite Elena's attempts to politely refuse, to insist that she come to their home, have dinner, visit. From his spot mere feet away, Damon is practically radiating the phrase IOver my dead body./I

"Look," Elena finally says loud enough to cut through their bickering. "I would really rather meet on neutral ground."

They consent, finally, but immediately start discussing where to go. They decide on some place called The Station Café, which she knows nothing about, and when she looks to Damon to gauge his reaction, he shrugs and tilts his head and she interprets that as, "Eh, whatever."

Finally, everyone hangs up and Elena sits heavily on the bed, her phone clutched in her hands.

"This is the right thing, right?"

Damon, who has opened the minibar, is pouring out and simultaneously scowling at several fingers of whiskey. "As opposed to…?" He lets the question drift there a minute. "God, you would think for the price of the room, they'd at least stock good hooch."

Elena makes a face that she hopes displays her complete lack of sympathy for his plight, but he ignores her and digs the half empty bottle of scotch from his bag.

"You brought that?"

He looks at her like she's just asked him a stupid question and she's suddenly irritated. "Like I was going to leave it at your house for Alaric to drink," he says derisively.

Squaring her shoulders (she does that a lot lately, she realizes), Elena pulls her coat on and says, "Share the wealth. I'm going to need it."

The Station Café is a small, rustic place with mismatched tables and comfortable chairs. The art on the walls is all local and for sale and the music is something light and pleasant. One of the waitresses practically eye-fucks Damon the second they sit down and Elena looks pointedly away, pretending not to care.

They are twenty minutes early, which was Damon's idea. He's not suspicious, he says, but it's a lie. He has that forced calm thing going on, but she doesn't really want to ask about it. If he wants to be wary, the better for everyone.

"So," he says, once they've ordered coffee and sandwiches, "why did you raid my liquor cabinet?"

"What?" She asks, genuinely confused.

"The long overdue sob fest," he explains. "Was Ric's industrial sized Johnny Walker bottle not good enough for you?"

Deflecting, because she does not want to have this conversation at all, Elena says, "I really should be less of a snob."

"Elena," he says, drawing out the A in that long, taunting tone of his.

"Damon," she mimics.

He doesn't answer, but the expression on his face is nearly unbearably smug, like he's giving her the opportunity to confess something that he already knows. She tells herself she doesn't care, matches his expression with her own, unimpressed one, but can't hold it for long. Soon, much sooner than she would prefer, she's shifting away and breaking eye contact. He leans across the table and fixes her with a look and she breaks.

"Okay," she says, aggravated. "I snagged it at my birthday party. I didn't want gross keg beer." She doesn't mention that this is not true, doesn't mention that she took it to drown out the memory of one brother with the closest she could get to the other, doesn't mention that this was long before her birthday. There was something poetic in this idea of self-destruction when she stumbled into his room, half drunk on grief and the rest on something fruity that she couldn't name. She can no longer recall just how that poem went.

He smirks. "But that bottle was in the cabinet in my bedroom, Elena," he says, twisting the word bedroom in that lecherous way he's so good at, not that she would ever admit to thinking this.

"So?"

"You were snooping."

"I was not snooping," Elena insists even though she totally was.

"Uh huh," he says, sounding entirely unconvinced and she doesn't blame him, she is lying after all.

"Elena?" Someone says from behind her. Turning abruptly, instantly defensive, Elena sees a pair of eager looking people, watching her curiously. They're holding hands and looking like the cheesy photos that come stuffed into picture frames.

Immediately, Elena can see that Isobel resembled her mother. They have (or had, rather) the same wide dark eyes and dimpled chins, but Susan appears to still be in possession of her humanity… at least Elena hopes so. Patrick, who looks very little like his daughter, has short white hair, blue eyes and a grandfatherly look about him. In short, they're adorable.

Susan takes a tentative step forward and Elena smiles as she stands, doing her best to be non-threatening and welcoming. She wants so badly, suddenly, to like these people.

"Hi," Elena says, but as she's saying it, something flashes across her vision and someone is barreling into her.

The entire room erupts into chaos and she can see Damon in front of her, his back blocking most of her view, but then he's yanked away and she can hear him growl something and then the sickening sound she's horrified to know is the sound of a heart being pulled from someone's chest.

Someone screams and then Damon is back, gathering her up, making her stand.

"We have to get out of here," he says, making her meet his eyes.

"What about them?" She asks, meaning the Flemmings, looking around the ruined café and not finding them.

"They're not here," he says evenly, but she doesn't know what he means and she doesn't like the steadiness of his tone.

Elena opens her mouth to say something back, something defiant, but there's a crash and she falls to the ground, feeling his hand rip out of hers, realizing for the first time that she had been holding his hand.

It's the pain that she notices first, spiraling up her leg and across her back. Something or someone is holding her down, even as she struggles to get free, struggles to see what's happening. Someone is screaming and someone is cursing and her vision is starting to fade in at the edges. Hot breath hits her ear and a voice says, "Shh."

She wants to scream, to run, to strike him, but there is this buzzing in her head and a tingling numbness sweeping over her body. She holds her eyes open, fighting to keep hold of her consciousness. She locks eyes with him and gasps in recognition. Stefan stares back.

"Ste –." It's all she can get out, her voice breaks but she doesn't know if it's from emotion or pain.

The world slips away from her for a moment, the blackness falling over her. But just as quickly, she's pulled back to the present. Someone's calling to her.

"Elena!" Stefan is saying, his face still close to hers, his voice urgent. "Elena!"

They're moving too fast and it makes her head spin, makes her body hurt.

"Put me down," she manages to choke out.

"Listen to me," he says. "You need to drink."

She doesn't protest, she doesn't have the strength and the practical part of her knows he's right.

"What the fuck?" Damon says suddenly and Elena says his name, desperate, scared. She squirms, instinctively trying to reach him. She doesn't understand what's happening and she doesn't trust Stefan and she feels like maybe she's dreaming all of this.

"Elena," Stefan says. "Stop squirming."

"God damn it, Stefan." Damon's voice is much closer now, his arms sliding under her, taking her from his brother, cursing. "What the hell was that?"

"You should be thanking me, brother," Stefan says, cocky, irreverent.

"Really?" Damon asks, his arms closing tight around her, his lips against her hair.

"I saved our girlfriend," Stefan snarks back.

Damon snorts. "And why did you need to do that in the first place?"

Whatever Stefan's answer is, Elena doesn't know because it is then that someone's bloody wrist is pressed against her lips and all she knows is the throbbing in her veins and the warmth that floods her body.


End file.
